by Darcy Burke
“As much as I’d like to stay here with you forever, it’s time to go.” James stood, extending a hand to her. “But don’t fret, love. That was only the beginning.”
Chapter 18
Three days passed. Three days of fighting, fencing, and shooting, a constant surge of excitement through his body. Vivian progressed well with her training. She’d picked up shooting with the flintlock as though she’d been born with his Bedford pistol in her hand. Her combat was becoming fluid, the steps to each defensive maneuver now rote. Tomorrow, he’d start to add more complex moves into her exercises.
It was not enough.
He could not shake the feeling that something bad was coming. No matter how much they prepared, this sensation kept him wide-awake at night. He pushed open the door to their bedroom, intending to creep quietly inside so he wouldn’t wake Vivian. She had gone to bed early, while he’d stayed awake to review more files.
But the candle burned in the lamp, casting a golden glow. Amber flames burned in the fireplace, bathing the room in comfortable warmth. The fur rug had been brought out from the armoire and spread in front of the fire. It was a cozy, convivial scene—made even more welcoming by his wife curled up on the rug in a thin white nightdress that left little to the imagination. Her blonde hair trailed down her back in a thick braid, while a maroon shawl draped over her shoulders.
He shut the door, and she looked up at the click of the handle, a slow smile crooking her lips. She sat up on the rug, her legs tucked beneath her. Reaching behind her, she held up a bottle of brandy. “Care for a drink?”
He didn’t remember leaving brandy here; one of the other spies must have forgotten to take it with him. “We seem to be missing snifters.”
She gave him a playful look. “Why must we be civilized? This is not a grandiose social event. We are in the middle of the woods, James. There’s a bottle and there’s your mouth. For a man so skilled in equations, I think you can do the mathematics.”
He leaned down, removing his boots and setting them by the door. Then he came toward her, sitting down on the rug beside her. “I shall never make amends for that dashed proposal, shall I?”
She laughed. “You are a duke and a master spy, a combination bound to swell your head. It is my duty to keep you grounded by reminding you of the most unromantic proposal in history.”
“How benevolent of you,” he said. “Years from now, you’ll be telling our children how ‘Papa said we were like equations.’”
He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t meant to speak about the future at all. He’d wanted to live in the moment, with no thoughts of the danger the upcoming weeks would bring them.
She raised the bottle to her lips, sipping. “So you think we’re going to live through this.”
“Yes.” He grabbed the bottle from her and imbibed. “We are survivors, aren’t we?”
She snatched the bottle from him, taking another drink from it. “Everyone must end sometime. I doubt Evan ever expected to die, but there you have it. He’s dead.”
“Ah.” He now knew why she drank tonight. “I won’t let you die before your time. I made you a promise, darling.”
This time, I will keep my vow.
She passed the bottle back to him. He took another long sip, brandy splashing down his throat, the sweet, nutty bite saturating heat throughout him. Combined with the warmth of the fire, it was almost enough to cut the chill settling in the base of his spine. The unsettling dread that he’d fail again.
“Even you, with all your eminent skills, cannot predict the future.” She ran her hand across the rug, her pale fingers a stark contrast to the dark brown fur. Once this wooly shell had been a bear—a living, breathing animal with power and ferocity.
“I do not need to predict the future.” His fingers curled around the lip of the bottle, but he did not drink again. “All I need to know is what I am willing to do to ensure that you live a long and healthy life.”
She lifted her eyes to him, her long lashes flitting against her milky skin. “And that is?”
“Anything,” he answered without reluctance.
Her lower lip quivered. He’d hoped to reassure her, not scare her further. She needed to know the truth: he was in this fight until the end. No matter what he had to sacrifice. She would live.
She shook her head. “I don’t want you to do that. You know I appreciate all you’ve done to protect me, James, but there has to be a limit. My life is not so valuable that it would justify the loss of yours.”
Another swallow of brandy, smaller this time, just enough to fire his body again. “I disagree.”
“This is my problem,” she reminded him. “I accepted Sauveterre’s proposition. I spied on you.”
He tucked the brandy bottle behind them. “And my organization failed Evan, and by extension, you and everyone else. Sauveterre is my problem, too. He was looking for me, Vivian. He used you as a vehicle to get to me.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to die for me.” Taking his hand in hers, she wrapped her fingers around his. “Because even if you don’t say exactly that, I know that’s what you’re thinking. I see it in your eyes. That dark, haunted look you get when you think I’m not watching you.”
For a second, he could do no more than gaze into her eyes; breathe in her rose scent and pretend that a lifetime with her was not as elusive as he believed. With her free hand, she drew the shawl tighter around her, as though it might keep her safe.
Nothing so trivial could ensure her security. Nothing—no one—could do that but him.
“I’m not going to let you.” Her determined tone matched his. “We will fight Sauveterre together, and if it comes to the point that there’s no way out, you will run.”
He released her hand, shifting so that he sat with his legs straight out on the bear rug. The fire made his socks and the hem of his breeches warm. “I can’t do that.”
Something in his tone must have intrigued her, for she leaned forward, her eyes searching his face. “I can’t help but wonder if there’s something more to this than self-preservation or the standard heroism of a spy.”
He wasn’t a hero. He was a callous killer—that he’d slayed in the name of the Crown did not change the fact. And those murders weren’t the worst things he’d done.
Vivian’s features took on the contemplative cast he knew too well. “That night in your office, on the first anniversary of your sister’s death, you said she died in a hunting accident. But knowing now what I know about your sisters, I cannot help but wonder…was Louisa involved in the Clocktower as well?”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees at the mention of Louisa’s name. No amount of fire or brandy could staunch this cold. Still he shifted closer to Vivian, pressing his thigh against her leg, as close as he could get to her without pulling her into his lap.
She laid her hand on his knee. “I told you all about Evan, about the life I had in Devon. You know everything about me. Tell me what really happened to Louisa.”
He stiffened. He did not want to discuss this.
Her voice grew quiet, barely audible over the lapping flames of the fire. “I know honesty is not in a spy’s vocabulary normally, but I am your wife, James. Whatever you tell me, it won’t change how I see you.”
He did not want her to view him as weak. Or worse, to know that he had forfeited his sister’s life by underestimating his opponent.
But she leaned her head against his shoulder, and her touch quieted his mind the way no liquor could. He’d promised to tell her what he could, and Louisa’s death was common knowledge amongst other Clocktower agents.
“When I said someone was hunting—that was the truth. But what I didn’t specify was that she was the one doing the hunting. There was a mission.” He rested his head against hers, counting her breaths. Anything to distance himself from this story. “We have the Clocktower. Bonaparte has not only Fouché’s secret police, but also his own special group of assassins called the Ta
lons. We received word that one of the top Talons, an agent named Nicodème, would be in Paris at a concert held for members of the First Consul’s court.”
“So you wanted to capture him.”
He nodded. “It wasn’t just the information he might give us on other Talons. Nicodème ran one of the worst prostitution rings in all of France, aimed at men with violent proclivities. Every day, our inside agents delivered reports of women being raped and beaten in his brothels, sometimes to death.”
“That’s horrible.” She burrowed deeper against him, as if through their closeness she could lessen the woes of the world. “Why didn’t the police do anything?”
“Nicodème was a Talon, and he had ample blunt to pay the police off.” James’s voice grew cold, remembering how the ruffian had boasted of his influence. “But then he made the mistake of kidnapping several British citizens for his bordello. Once I determined that intelligence was solid, I formed a team. It was supposed to be Arden and me, but Louisa demanded to be included.”
“What happened?”
“We managed to rescue the women he’d taken, but something went wrong. Somehow Nicodème knew Louisa worked for the Crown. He kidnapped her, took her to his torture chamber.” His voice broke, but he continued, for Vivian rubbed circles on his hand, soothing him. “By the time we got to her, she was too far gone to save. Arden and I took her back to our temporary hideout, and she died that night.”
“I am so sorry,” Vivian murmured, clutching his hand. “No wonder you were in such a state that night. I wish I’d known—I wish I’d been able to do more for you.”
“You did more than you could ever know.” He pulled her closer against him, his hand gripping the curve of her waist. He held onto her as though she were his salvation, the light to chase away the darkness of the last year. “You gave me a chance at something more.”
“I am glad for that, then,” she said, squeezing his hand too.
He let out a long, shaky breath. “But nothing we do can change the fact that I sent my sister to death. I knew the mission would be difficult, and still I sent her in.”
Vivian tilted her head to look up at him. “Was she a capable agent?”
He deliberated. “She was at times too impulsive for my tastes, but yes, she was an excellent agent.”
“And did you have any intelligence that said Nicodème would know who she was?”
“No. They’d never met before.” For the last year, he’d gone over the missives they’d received until he memorized the contents. Every asset they had on sight had indicated that Nicodème was unaware of their plans. “But what does it matter? She was twenty-one, and I sent her to her grave.”
“You assessed the situation given the information you had, and you made a decision that was logical. Your sister asked to be added to the mission, so clearly she thought she could handle it.” Vivian’s calm voice lulled his tired nerves, until he wanted nothing more than to believe that she was right.
That everything he’d done could be absolved by Vivian’s support.
She needed to know the real man she had married. Could she accept him then?
“When you asked me if I’d achieved justice for her, I let you think that I handed Nicodème over to the police. But I slit his throat. He died in my arms and I felt good about it.” He dropped her hand. He would not sully her skin with his touch. “How can I ask you to be near me when this is a part of my everyday life? The things that I have done for my country…”
She did not draw back from him. Instead, her fingers cupped his chin, forcing him to look at her. “I have spent the last year and a half vowing to slay the bastard who killed Evan. When I have the opportunity, I will take it.” Her eyes held his with steadfast scrutiny. “So do not expect me to condemn you for the things you have done. You protected people, innocent people, while all I want is to hurt Sauveterre. Of the two of us, I assure you my goals are far less noble.”
He did not know how to respond. Perhaps he should have anticipated this—she was never typical in her reactions to things. But her acceptance when she knew the truth about him still stunned him.
“You may have vowed to kill Sauveterre, but you do not know what you will do if the opportunity arises.”
She shrugged. “I do not know many things. But I do know that you are an honorable man, James Spencer. Even though I gave you every reason not to, you trusted me. The man I see when I look at you is one I’m proud to be married to, a man I love.”
Love.
That last word repeated in his mind. He had dared to hope that she could love him, yet a part of him had never believed she would.
She readjusted her position so that she was at eye level with him. Her lithe body leaned into his as she placed a soft kiss upon his lips. That gentle, sweet kiss grew more ardent the longer his lips connected with hers. Like everything else she did, Vivian kissed with passion—fervently, with reckless abandon.
She was perfection in his arms.
He parted from her, keeping his gaze locked on her. Gently, he caressed her cheek. “I love you too, Vivian. More than I ever thought it possible to love someone. You’re my everything.”
His hand rested on her cheek and she leaned into his touch. She stared into his gray eyes and she found strength in the steady weight of his gaze, the respect he offered her as his equal. His wife. His duchess.
A month ago, she had been Vivian Loren, wallflower and bluestocking. Unnoticed and unloved by most. She had gone through every day as though she were slumbering, trapped in the same spiral of thoughts. Evan’s murder. Sauveterre’s control. Lie upon untruth upon misery until she believed she would never know anything but bitterness and hatred.
James had changed that. From the moment she’d confessed her wrongdoings, he’d been there. Navigating behind the scenes, ensuring her care. She could not fathom all he had done—how his agents had unearthed traces of Sauveterre, or how he’d discovered that Evan was a spy too. There was so much about his profession she didn’t comprehend, and she still wasn’t sure if she wanted to accept his offer to join the Clocktower.
But she understood him. The man behind his many names. He was intelligent and resilient. His devotion to those he cared about had drawn her in from that first night in his office. The way he spoke of his sisters with such affection, and how he’d always made sure Thomas received the best tutelage possible. She pictured how dedicated he’d be to their own family someday.
He knew how to fight, but he also knew how to love.
She did not know if she was special enough, beautiful enough, tough enough to deserve him. But he made her want to take that chance.
She ran her thumb across his lips, letting her touch show him that though she doubted she could become a proficient spy, she never doubted him. She would work to become a woman worthy of him.
Slowly, day by day, he was teaching her that she could be his partner, but remain independent in her decisions.
She sat up straight, pushing the shawl off her shoulders. His gaze fastened immediately on her plump breasts. The almost translucent material of her nightdress left her little modesty. A quick glance down confirmed that the dark, dusky circles of her nipples were visible.
“You’re gorgeous.” The low huskiness to his voice made her shiver with need.
She wanted him. There was no question of that in her mind. She wanted him above her, the corded muscles in his arms straining as he thrust into her again and again. She wanted to be naked and gasping beneath him, striving to meet that devastating bliss once more.
Laying her hand on his chest, she gave him a gentle push, and he dropped to the bearskin throw. He pulled her down with him, and they fell together in a jumble of limbs, his back against the rug and her legs between his thighs.
He unbraided her hair until the fair strands fell loose against her shoulders. His fingers entangled in her curls, massaging as he brought his mouth upon hers in a long, scorching kiss. One kiss became another, and then another, mouths meeting in a
desperate rhythm. He was hers. She was his. His tongue breached her lips, plunging into her mouth, filling her with the sweet taste of brandy, the spice of him.
Then his hands were on her hips, lifting her up so that she straddled him. Her nightdress fell about her, and he helped her yank it up higher.
“So beautiful,” he murmured with reverence that made her wet in her core. Under his watchful gaze she felt beautiful.
He ran his thumb across her breast, her nipples pebbling beneath his touch. Her breasts felt heavy, receptive to the slightest drag of the thin fabric. Pleasure rocked through her as he leaned forward, taking her breast in his mouth, his tongue dipping out to taste her through her nightdress.
It was not enough. She wanted more. She wanted him, with no impediments between them. Naked.
In one fell move, she whipped the nightgown off of her, tossing it aside. He had seen her with only her chemise on before, but she had never been bared to him. A moment of discomfiture raced through her, cut short when his eyes roved down her frame with such apparent hunger.
“God, Vivian,” he groaned, cupping her bottom and bringing her down on his erection. He guided her against him, the rub of his hard arousal against her mons the most delicious hint of what would come soon.
She ground against him, each stroke adding kindling to the fire that burned within her. His hands gripped her rear, holding her steady, allowing her to hit that one glorious point—that secret spot that had sent her reeling before.
Then he rolled them, and suddenly she was between his thighs, his muscular arms resting on either side of her. He ducked his head, taking her lips in a kiss that branded her as his. He’d left a mark on her soul. Pleasure coursed through her as he moved his attentions to her neck, running his tongue against the crevice of her ear. She had never known that an ear could be so devilishly erotic.
He moved down, taking her breasts in his mouth and sucking upon the tip of her nipple. “Your breasts are wonderful. Firm, yet soft.”
Her hands somehow found their way to his head, diving into his black locks and anchoring his head to her chest. This was magnificent; this was perfect; how it had been with them before. That spark, now a full-fledged firestorm. He bit her nipple, scraping his teeth against her sensitive skin, making her squirm underneath him.